Steel Beams
by StubblePrince
Summary: AU. Saitama is a construction worker and Genos is a very smart, very gay architect student. (Heavily inspired by furaitsu on tumblr. Repost from AO3)


When his drafting and design instructor mentioned that their class would be joining the construction class on a week-long project, Genos was less than thrilled. They were going to visit a construction site as a sort of "hands-on" learning experience - which, Genos thought, would benefit the construction students more. Nonetheless, his instructor assured them that they'd get a chance to speak with the head architect. "You'll get to see how blueprints translate into real life," she had said. "It'll show you how important it is that your work is precise and without error."

Genos was top of his class, praised for his keen mind and attention to detail. He double, triple, _quadruple_ checked his work. He made no errors.

This would be a waste of time.

It was definitely _not_ a waste of time.

The site was far enough away from his university that instead of showing up to class, him and his nine classmates would meet there in the morning.

On the first day, the foreman greets them warmly.

"Welcome!" he says, all smiles and open posture. He gives them a compulsory safety speech, explaining where they were allowed and where they were not, which Genos promptly tunes out. His gaze roams the construction sight, passing over the workers. There's a stereo in a corner, blasting obnoxious pop music that clashes horribly with the uneven beat of the hammers. In the hot midday sun, several of the builders are shirtless, uniforms folded down to their waists.

"Oh my god, he looks like an egg!" comes a hushed voice behind him.

"He totally does," another agrees, and they dissolve into giggles. Genos is about to turn around and reprimand them when the object of their conversation comes into view.

The man is obtusely _average_ in every way, save for his bald head. It shines in the sun, and Genos can't help but to agree that the man does, unfortunately, resemble an egg. He has a bland expression on his face, looking extremely sleepy or extremely bored. Probably both.

Genos is about to pass off the man as totally unremarkable when said egg effortly hefts half a dozen steel beams onto his shoulder.

"Over here!" calls another worker, and he carries the beams out of Genos' line of sight.

 _Impossible_ , he thinks. Those beams must be _at least_ forty pounds each...just how strong is he? Is he a superhuman? Does he use mechanics, like Genos' arms...?

Genos is pulled out of his thoughts when his instructor hands him an assignment sheet. He glances down at it, and realizes he has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do.

"Any questions?" asks the foreman. Genos, though sorely tempted to ask what happened in the last five minutes, remains silent. "None? Alright, feel free to go."

Genos shoves the bald man from his mind. He needed to concentrate and talk to the head architect first.

Concentrate. Right.

When Genos returns from speaking with the architect, he has several blueprints clutched underneath one arm and one open in his hands. All things considered, speaking with him actually _was_ a good experience. He'd been very kind and patient, answering Genos' questions to the best of his ability. He'd even brought up several points that Genos had never considered before. It was, in all honesty, a very good experience.

Genos is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice a stray board in his path. He trips over it and, in an attempt to right himself, throws his hands out in front of him. The blueprints go flying everywhere while his body knocks into one of the supply shelves. Genos falls flat on his back in recoil.

He watches, helplessly, as the shelf tilts precariously forward. Beams and other support structures start to slide out. Fear grips his chest, locks his limbs up and all Genos can do is stare with wide eyes as a beam plummets toward him - _his mother's voice calling out to him, so full of terror, and suddenly he can't move and pain is white-hot across his back, and he's trapped trapped_ trapped _-_

"Woah!" Genos' eyes shoot open (when had they closed?) and there stands the man from before, supporting the entire shelf with his upper body, a hand gripping the beam, preventing it from falling.

He's shirtless now, sweat coating his upper body. From Genos' position, he can see the firmness of his abdomen, the sharp lines of his collarbone, the trail of hair that starts at his naval and dips below the V of his pelvis. When he brings his eyes up, he realizes that the sun is shining behind him. The glow casts a golden halo around his head, softening his features.

 _He looks like an angel_.

The man pushes the shelf upright again, slotting the beam back into place. A metal pole clangs softly to Genos' right.

"You should be more careful, kid. Didn't the foreman say you guys weren't allowed back here?"

 _Probably_ , Genos thinks. It takes him a moment to realize that a hand is being proffered to him, and he hurriedly grabs it, marvelling at the strength of the man when he's fluidly pulled up. All he can do is stare at him, jaw open wide in shock.

"Kid? You didn't hit your head too, did you?"

 _Oh no_ , Genos thinks. _He's_ _hot_

"P-please tell me your name!" he stutters, bowing low.

The man regards him curiously for a moment, before shrugging. "It's Saitama," he says. "You sure you're okay?"

Genos nods furiously. "Yes! Thank you!"

The man shrugs again and walks off, leaving Genos to stare at his (very, _very_ muscular) back.

Well, shit.

"Hey, Genos." The boy looks up from his notebook at the mention of his name. The only girl in his design class stops before him, smiling gently, a light flush on her cheeks. "Me and a few others were going to go get lunch. Want to come with?"

Genos glances down at his notebook, filled with notes of the construction, then to the blueprints opened beside him. "Thanks, but no. I'm working."

Her face falls a little. "Oh," she murmurs, disappointment clear in her voice. "Maybe next time?"

"Sure," Genos acquiesces. Anything to get her to leave.

Appeased, the girl tells him goodbye.

When she leaves, Genos tries to get back to work. He really does. Yet no matter how hard he tries to focus, he can't get the event from earlier out of his head. Saitama, standing above him, looking so angelic. He flips to a clean page in his journal and starts to sketch, trying to capture Saitama's features in that enchanting moment.

Genos has always been good at drawing, has always had an eye for angles and edges, so what if Saitama is made of those? So what if he's incredibly easy to draw, if Genos can visualize him just as easy as any building? Before he realizes it, he's wasted half his break just sketching Saitama's face at different angles, his neck, the dip of his collarbone.

When he glances up, he spots Saitama sitting down in the distance, fanning himself with one of his gloves. Genos shuts his notebook and grabs a can of soda from the cooler, making his way toward the older man.

He's looking off at a spot in the distance, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched. "Mister Saitama," he starts, watching as that bored gaze focuses on him. He holds out the soda as a peace offering. "Are you on break?"

"...Yeah." He takes the soda from him. "Thanks." He pops the can, lifting it to his lips, and Genos can't help but to admire how his adam's apple bobs as he drinks. Saitama sighs in relief and sets the can down next to him, lounging, spreading his legs out in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life. If you hadn't been there, I surely would have - "

Saitama waves a hand. "It was nothing. Just...watch where you're going next time, yeah?"

"Yes, sir!"

Saitama winces. "Don't call me that."

"Mister!"

"Don't call me that either!" Saitama sighs and drains the rest of the soda in two huge gulps. When he realizes Genos hasn't left, he pats the space next to him. Genos gratefully sits, a small, pleased smile on his face.

"Shouldn't you be, I dunno, learning or something? And anyway, what's your name?"

"It's Genos, sir. And I'm on lunch break right now."

"Shouldn't you be eating with your classmates?"

"You saved me. I only wanted to show my gratitude - "

"Yeah, yeah, kid." Saitama yawns, leaning back on his elbows. Genos can't help but to stare appreciatively as he breathes, muscles shifting with the movement.

"Saitama!" comes a voice, and both he and Genos turn toward the sound. A tall, intimidating man jogs toward them, and as he comes closer Genos can see the scar that runs down his eye, three straight lines, as if he'd been clawed. His gaze locks on Genos for a moment, and he gives a perfunctory nod, before turning toward the bald man. "Sorry, I know it's your break, but can you help me for a moment? I can't lift part of the material."

Genos barely holds back a sigh when Saitama stands. "Sure, yeah. 'S'no problem." When the scarred man walks off, Saitama makes to follow him, before suddenly pausing. "Um, see you, Genos."

He tries to ignore how his heart thumps in his chest.

When his boss had said there'd be a class from the local university visiting, Saitama wasn't too excited. He'd been told they would be observing, sometimes joining in, but that was it. And it was only for a week.

He could handle that.

What he couldn't handle was the fact that he'd gained a shadow.

Ever since he saved that Genos kid, he's followed him around despite explicit orders not to.

"It's not safe," Saitama had tried to reason. "You'll get hurt."

"I checked it with the foreman," Genos had responded. "He gave me permission."

So now he has to deal with a student following him around literally _everywhere_. Genos keeps a notebook with him, and every time Saitama glances back he's scribbling something in it. Presumably notes, though about _what_ , Saitama doesn't know.

The kid brings him bentos for lunch, and expensive sodas, so Saitama can't really complain. They sit together and eat, making idle conversation, mostly centred around Genos asking questions and Saitama answering to the best of his ability.

It's the third day of the visitation, and Saitama comforts himself with the fact that soon the project will be over. Just a few more days and he won't have to deal with Genos hanging at his heels all the time.

Man, the kid sure was weird. No matter how many times Saitama told him no, Genos was constantly calling him "mister" or "sir", polite and gracious to boot. He always has his head bowed in his notebook, and when it's not, his eyes are glued to Saitama. It's kinda creepy, if he's being honest. And his _hands_. They look like they're robotic, fingers segmented, painted a dark grey color. At first, Saitama had assumed they were gloves or something, but they make a metallic clinging sound whenever he brushes them against the poles or the steel support beams. Actually, now that it's on his mind...

"Say, Genos," Saitama starts, setting his bento box to the side. "What's with your hands?"

Shit, he realizes, cringing internally. That was probably the most insensitive way to phrase a question. Genos seems unperturbed, though, and actually smiles, flexing his fingers.

"They're prosthetics, mister Saitama. The entirety of my left arm and part of my right are made from the latest in cybernetic technology." Genos rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, showing Saitama. Indeed, the metal on the left arm seems to extend indefinitely up, but on the right it stops at his forearm, blending seamlessly with skin.

"What happened?" Saitama asks. "Wait, uh, only if you're comfortable telling me though," he adds, remembering at the last second to be polite.

"I was fifteen when it happened," Genos starts, and Saitama suddenly gets the feeling like he's in a shonen manga. "My family and I, we were poor, but we were happy. We lived in what was known as the 'poor section' of town, where all the houses were decrepit and dilapidated. Although we were constantly short on funds, my parents spoiled me and my younger sister. They sent us to the best private school in the area, always made sure we had food in our stomachs, and made sure we were able to participate in the activities we wanted to.

"However, in order for this to happen, my parents made sacrifices. They never went on vacation. My dad never got the car he wanted. And, ultimately, they continually put off fixing the house. Despite this, I do not blame my parents for what happened. It was, in my opinion, an event that could have been prevented had the house been constructed properly -"

God, did the kid ever shut up? "Get to the point! What does any of this have to do with your prosthetics?"

Genos, to his credit, doesn't falter. "One night, my village was wracked by a terrible earthquake. Due to the shoddy conditions of my house, the supports came down. My father and sister, who were in the basement, were crushed instantly. My mother and I were in the family room. The roof caved in and barred her on one side of the room, me on the other. My left arm was destroyed by the rubble, and my right badly damaged when a beam fell across my back."

How could he say that with such a serious face? You didn't explain in detail how your parents died and _not_ sniffle. Yet Genos remains as impassive as ever.

"Wait," Saitama stops him. "If it fell across your back, how come s'just your hand's gone? Actually, no, don't answer that -"

"There are several metal discs in my spine, Saitama, sir," Genos says, continuing on. "It wasn't just my hand affected. Anyway, when the earthquake stopped, it took a little while before paramedics reached our house. By that time, it was too late for my mother. I was the only one in my cul-de-sac that managed to live. A friend of my father, Doctor Kuseno took me in after he heard the news. He's a cybernetic scientist, and so he was able to outfit me with the latest technology that the hospital could not afford. I am eternally indebted to him, much like I am to you, for if it was not for him I would - "

"Enough already!" Saitama shouts. How could someone be _so bad_ at talking? "If you can't say it in twenty words or less, I don't want to hear it!"

Genos actually jerks back a little, and Saitama feels a little bad for yelling. Sheesh, though, the guy didn't know when to shut up.

There's a moment of silence, Genos' mouth working silently, before he looks to Saitama. "I'm studying architecture so that I may make sure an event like that never occurs again."

Oh. "That's...a pretty noble cause, actually," Saitama says.

"Yes," Genos agrees. "I feel like I am somehow avenging my family by making sure that homes are safe. Sir," Genos turns to him, ripping his gaze from the far wall. "Why are you a construction worker?"

Ah, shit. Genos is probably expecting some kind of interesting answer, something like 'it's been my dream since I was a kid' or something just as equally unlikely. Saitama settles on the truth.

"I needed a job and it pays moderately well. Manual labor just so happens to be the only thing I'm good at."

"Mister Saitama, I'm sure you are good at plently of other things!" Genos looks affronted, as if he can't believe Saitama would even suggest such a thing.

"Finding sales, maybe," he says, and stands, collecting his bento box. "C'mon, kid. Lunch is over."

Saitama tries to ignore the slight disappointment he feels in his chest.

Genos decides he hates mornings.

His class shows up every morning to the site at six, the same time as the workers. Mornings are cool and windy, a testament to the springtime weather. When construction begins, most of the construction kids join in and help work, while the design students are left to do mostly anything. A lot of them leave and go hang out at the library or a fast food chain, others stick around and dick around. Genos doesn't mind the free time.

He spends it all with Saitama, anyway.

When Saitama's on break, he sits far enough away to observe him. He draws him whenever he can, capturing Saitama in innocent moments. Saitama, sitting cross legged against a wall, drinking from a water bottle. Saitama, head tilted toward the sky, throat on display. He's even sketched Saitama stretching, his muscles pulled taut, beautiful back on display.

Afternoons are his favorite. The temperature is always hottest around lunch, and that's when Saitama starts to lose layers. He'll start with his uniform first, let it fall off his upper body. When even that is too much, he'll take off his thin t-shirt and show off his muscular physique. Saitama always sweats more when its hotter, and when sweat runs down his brow Genos wants to lean in and lick it up (god, he's a freak, but only with Saitama).

He also drinks more water. Whenever he finishes off a bottle, Genos is the first there with a new one, helpful, eager. He watches him when he drinks, watches the muscles in his throat work.

(He hopes Saitama hasn't noticed).

This afternoon is particularly hot. It has Genos rolling up the sleeves on his shirt, loosing his necktie and even popping a few buttons. He wishes he hadn't worn pants today.

When lunctime rolls around, Genos grabs the two homemade bento boxes he made and makes his way to Saitama, who's diligently hammering a board into place.

"Sir," he says. "It's lunchtime."

Saitama glances down at the boxes in Genos' hands, back up to the wood, then sighs. "Yeah, okay."

They sit down together on the bench as usual. Genos tries not to stare too long at the sweat dotted along Saitama's collarbone. He tries not to focus on how badly he wants to run his tongue along said bone.

"This is for you, mister Saitama," Genos says, handing him one of the bento boxes.

"Honestly, Genos," Saitama says, taking the bento from him. "You don't need to keep doing this."

"I want to," Genos responds. "You saved my life. This is the least I can do."

Saitama sighs, but takes his spot next to him nonetheless. They eat in a comfortable silence, lazy and lax due to the oppressive heat. Saitama wipes his brow with the back of his hand and gazes to the sky.

"It's so hot today," he whines. "I don't want to work."

"This week has been unusually warm," Genos agrees. "The temperatures will be lower next week, though."

The two continue to make idle conversation as they eat, Saitama swinging his legs on the bench.

Genos, as usual, finishes first and sets his bento to the side. He grabs his notebook and flips through the notes he made today, bending the corners of pages that he thinks will be especially useful.

"You're always working in that thing," Saitama points out around a mouthful of food. "What's even in it?"

Genos can't help the tiny twich of a smile at his lips. Saitama could be so adorable sometimes.

"Notes, mostly," he answers, glancing down at it again. "Sketches. I draw when you're on break."

"You draw on our breaks?" Saitama asks. "Can I see?"

Genos hands over his notebook, sitting close enough that their knees touch.

"I'm gross," Saitama says, setting his bento to the side and flipping open the sketch book. "Don't get too close. I smell disgusting and I'm all sweaty."

 _You smell good_ , he wants to say. Musky and manly, a hint of cologne. He wants to press his nose into the crook of his neck and inhale, wants to run his tongue along his sharp collarbone, down his sculpted front. Would he taste just as good, he wonders? Genos swallows his urges and merely presses closer, looking over his shoulder.

The first few pages are boring, merely analyses of the building, of its different angles and structural types. The next few are more artistic, snapshots of the workers miling about, the construction site at sundown, a simple portrait of the foreman.

"You're good," Saitama praises, a small, barely noticeable smile on his face. Genos tries to keep his heart from stuttering.

"I'm an architect. I have to be." When he glances down again, he realizes Saitama's about to reach where he'd stuffed all his loose papers into his notebook. "Oh, there's noth - "

Genos reaches out his hand to stop him, but it's too late. Saitama opens the page and the loose papers come spilling out. "Ah, shoot," the older man murmurs, and bends down to collect them, when his hand stills.

Some of the papers are actual sketches of buildings and plans, but the rest are all of Saitama. Saitama in different poses, Saitama shirtless, Saitama's face in a myriad of expressions. There's sketches of Saitama on his breaks, sipping at water bottles; or Saitama stretching, the muscles of his body outlined with thick lines.

What's worse, though, is the page the notebook is open on. It's a two-page spread of Saitama leaning seductively against a wall, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. He's gazing off somewhere with that same bored, tired look, but Genos has mapped the planes of his body perfectly, painstakingly etched out his hard lines and sharp edges. Genos stares in abject mortification.

"A-are...um...are these of me?" Saitama questions. His face is burning as red as Genos' face feels, and he's refusing to meet Genos' eyes.

"Yes, sir," Genos mumbles, feeling shame crawl up his throat. Saitama gets even redder at that statement, looking down at the notebook. When his land on the picture, they get impossibly wide.

"Um."

Genos wants to die.


End file.
